


Process Stories

by extasiswings



Series: In This White House [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, Male-Female Friendship, Polyromantic Male Character, Slow Build, West Wing AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9680390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Process story: (1) A story about how policy is made, not the policy itself; (2) A genre of political journalism that focuses on the mechanics of campaigning and policymaking, rather than the specifics of the issues involved.[Or: How a boy from Hell's Kitchen fell apart, fell in love, and found himself, not necessarily in that order]





	1. Matt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shuofthewind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuofthewind/gifts).



_Process story: (1) A story about how policy is made, not the policy itself; (2) A genre of political journalism that focuses on the mechanics of campaigning and policymaking, rather than the specifics of the issues involved._

Some people say that they can trace the path of their life back to a single moment in time, that if anything had gone differently at that point, they might have ended up somewhere completely different. Personally, Matt thinks that's bullshit. For him it's never been a single moment. Rather, if he tries to picture it he can cobble together anywhere from a dozen to hundreds of different moments that set him down the road he's on. If any one of them were to change, well, logic would indicate that more likely than not something else would have sent him in the right direction eventually.

(In church they would probably call it God's plan, say that everything happens for a reason and every moment is a blessing. If that's the case, Matt has more than a few bones to pick with God)

Some people might assume that for Matt, that supposed single moment is when he went blind as a kid or when he got his first job as a speechwriter or worked on his first campaign. But honestly, if he had to narrow down the hundreds to a single point, an initial spark, well…

( _—wet socks from stepping in too many puddles, water soaking the knees of his jeans, the familiar street mix of grime/smoke/piss/unwashed bodies in the air drowned out by the tang of metal in the blood on his hands, no no no, Dad, no please wake up—_ )

( _—I’m a big believer in exacting change from the inside--That sounds like a really nice dream—_ )

...it’s probably best that he doesn’t try. There’s a narrative, you see. In Washington. A specific story about being called to public service through altruism, a desire for power, or both. It tends to make the political elite uncomfortable if someone doesn’t fit the narrative. But then, there’s a reason Matt’s never wanted to run for office himself. 

Besides, all the real governing happens behind the scenes anyway.

_St. Patrick’s Cathedral, 1990_

_“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.” The cut on Matt’s lip splits further when he talks, fresh blood welling up. It hurts, but Matt doesn’t mind. If anything, he’s proud of it._

_Father Lantom sighs from the other side of the confessional. “You know, Matthew, the point of going to confession is that you’re actually sorry about what you’ve done.”_

_“I told Sister Josephine that when she sent me down here,” Matt shrugs. “She told me off for being smart with her and sent me anyway. So, I’m here.”_

_“Why’d you hit Jason?” The priest asks, electing not to respond to his statement. “I know it wasn’t because he stole your book or whatever it was you told the Sisters.”_

_Matt goes still and quiet. He wasn’t expecting to be called on his story, not when all of the nuns had accepted it without question. Especially because it’s not as though Jason hasn’t been taking his books—he has, but Mary Sue steals them back pretty quickly so it isn’t that big a deal._

_“Matthew?”_

_His knuckles ache when he flexes his hand. It’s strange—he knows how to throw a punch, but he wasn’t expecting it to feel like this after. Actually, he hadn’t expected it to feel the way it had when his fist connected with Jason’s nose either. Is this how his dad had felt all the time?_

_(Lord, his dad. Jack would have been so disappointed in him. But then, Jack isn’t around anymore to care whether Matt’s punching other kids or not)_

_“They never arrested the guy who killed my dad, you know,” Matt replies finally, the words tripping clumsily off his tongue, his stomach twisting in discomfort. “Everyone knew who it was, but they never—they never did anything. And I’m just—is that really how it works? Give enough money to the right politicians and lawyers and cops and you just...get away with murder?”_

_“It’s not supposed to work that way, no,” Father Lantom says, but his voice is tinged with uncertainty. “Matthew—”_

_“But it does,” Matt interrupts. “So I’m thinking...what’s the point? “Dissent from the apathy and the fear”...for what? Good people end up dead and nothing ever changes.”_

_The blood on his lip turns his stomach when his tongue sweeps over it. Christ, he just wants to leave. He never should have come in the first place, even if Sister Josephine would have dragged him down to the church eventually. This is the last conversation he wants to have with anyone, especially Father Lantom._

_“That’s not true.” The uncertainty from before has vanished from the priest’s voice. “Good people may end up dead, yes, but that doesn’t mean nothing ever changes. A lot of the time change can’t happen without good people making sacrifices to do the right thing. And maybe it isn’t immediate—real change takes time—but that’s all the more reason for other good people to keep moving forward.”_

_There’s a lump in Matt’s throat, and even when he swallows past it enough to speak the words still feel like broken glass when he forces them out._

_“It’s not fair.”_

_“No, it’s not,” Lantom acknowledges. “But doing nothing won’t change that.”_

_**We must dissent from the poverty of vision and the absence of moral leadership**...that’s part of the quote too._

_Matt takes off his glasses, traces the frames with his fingers. His knuckles twinge again._

_“Jason said my dad deserved what he got,” he admits. “That he should have known better than to run around with the Kitchen Irish. But my dad, he didn’t—he wouldn’t—”_

_**Everything he ever did, he did for me.** _

_“That’s why you punched him?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_Lantom hums thoughtfully and nods. “Go home, Matthew,” he decides._

_Matt blinks. “What about—”_

_“I’ll tell Sister Josephine you came by. She doesn’t need to know what happens in the confessional.”_

_Matt jams his glasses back on his nose and shoves open the door of the confessional fast enough that it hits the back wall. He winces. Whoops._

_“And Matthew,” Lantom calls after him. “It’s likely no consolation, but...if they’re shooting at you, it’s probably a sign you’re doing the right thing.”_

 

 _If they’re shooting at you, you’re doing the right thing_ —24 years later, waking up in a hospital bed, his head fuzzy from morphine and pain in his chest, that’s the first thing Matt remembers.


	2. Darcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt never intended to become friends with Darcy Lewis. Apparently the universe didn't care what his intentions were though, because it happened anyway. And honestly? When it comes down to it, Darcy Lewis was—and still is—the best thing to ever happen to him.

It goes something like this:

Matt never intended to become friends with Darcy Lewis. From their very first conversation he could tell she was an idealist—that's fine, the world can use more idealism—but since he was very much not, he decided he'd prefer not to be responsible for dimming the spark, the passion he heard in her voice when she talked about politics and changing the system. 

Apparently the universe didn't care what his intentions were though, because Darcy was always just...there. In Spanish class, in Intro to Comparative Politics (she noticed him and Foggy in the back of the class on the second day and switched her seat to sit with them), in the dining hall, in their dorm room (her roommate sexiled her constantly and it felt rude not to offer her a place to hang out)—and Matt could have distanced himself, but when he thought about it he really didn't want to. 

Because when it came down to it, Darcy Lewis was—and still is—the best thing to ever happen to him. 

 

_Columbia University, 1996_

_"Ugh, why do finals have to be a thing?" Darcy whines, throwing her flash cards down on the table and curling into Matt's side. "I'm so sick of studying."_

_Matt, for his credit, doesn't even hesitate before shifting his arm to the back of the couch so she can more comfortably claim his shoulder for a pillow._

_"You could stop, you know," he points out, his free hand still trailing over the pages of his course text, a massive volume uncreatively titled Crime and Punishment. "You'll probably be fine. You've been studying all week."_

_Darcy huffs and Matt decidedly ignores the way her breath on his neck makes him want to shiver. “You know that Professor Stein hates me. He’ll use any excuse to take points off my exam.”_

_“Maybe you should have considered that before you started debating intervention strategies with him in the middle of a class.”_

_Rolling her eyes, Darcy reaches across him to snag the blanket she’d brought and settles back against him. “He was being grossly colonialist and I was right.”_

_Matt hums. It’s a conversation they’ve had several times and he knows better than to get into it again, but— “I’m just saying that starting arguments with your professor instead of other students is a good way to make your life more difficult. Also, there are intervention strategies that aren’t terrible you know.”_

_“When did you stop agreeing with me?” Darcy grumbles, but she doesn’t move away either so he’s pretty sure she’s not actually mad. “I thought you were on my side.”_

_“I am,” Matt replies, closing his textbook only to reach for his headphones to start reviewing his audio notes. “I just had the benefit of learning about intervention strategies from Klare. And she managed to discuss them with a lot more nuance.”_

_“I’m still jealous you got Klare when I got stuck with Stein. It’s ridiculous that the non-majors get a better poli-sci experience than those of us actually trying to get a degree in this nonsense.”_

_“Well, there’s still time for you to switch majors. Then you could join me and Foggy in the criminal justice track.”_

_Darcy snorts and closes her eyes, stifling a yawn as she wraps the blanket tighter around her frame. “Well, if I don’t pass this class I might not have a choice about that, so maybe you’ll get your wish.”_

_“You’ll be fine,” Matt repeats. He hesitates for just a moment, but finally allows his fingers curl into her hair, gently combing through the strands. She lets out a small, pleased sigh when he does and he curses himself for giving into the temptation._

_Christ, two semesters, thirty weeks, and he’s completely gone for her. It’s actually a little pathetic and definitely inconvenient because as far as he can tell she doesn’t think of him as anything other than a friend and the awkwardness that would result from him ever saying anything would be...well, he’d just as soon avoid that._

_So instead he does things like this—lets her curl up next to him, around him, fall asleep on his shoulder, plays with her hair because she likes it and it’s intimate without being obviously romantic—_

_Foggy thinks he’s an idiot. Foggy is absolutely right._

_“Thanks, Matt,” Darcy murmurs, clearly slipping into the beginning stages of sleep. “Wake me up when you’re ready to go back to your room?”_

_“Of course.”_

_Yeah, he’s screwed._

 

The White House, March 2013

“I’m not going to stand up in front of the press and say that the law we just passed—a law we had to fight very hard to get passed, by the way—is worthless!”

There are certain things no one tells you about being blind. One of them, the one that Matt runs into most frequently, is that when you can’t see someone’s face, even if you know they’re pissed at you, it’s a lot easier to convince yourself to keep going. Even if the person that’s pissed at you is the President of the United States. 

“And I’m saying that the fact that we had to fight so hard to pass a law that’s going to make no difference to people’s lives is ridiculous and that just maybe we should point that out for once instead of patting ourselves on the back for nothing!” Matt shoots back. “And while I’m saying that, I would also like to remind everyone in this room that half the reason we had to run around twisting arms last week is precisely because our more progressive party members are sick and tired of voting for legislation that isn’t going to have any impact in the name of compromise.”

“It was my bill, Matt,” Steve grinds out. “I introduced it. And now you think I should trash it? What sort of message does that send?”

“The message that considering it looks absolutely nothing like the original version you introduced, you’re not just going to stand by it with pride—”

“For God’s sake, Murdock—”

“Okay, we’re done,” Darcy interrupts, sweeping into the room. “Matt, he can’t say what you want him to say, and what’s more, he shouldn’t. And since I’m the press secretary, I think I get the final word on that. We’re done talking about this.”

Matt tightens his hands around his cane until they ache. No one is listening, dammit. 

“Why shouldn’t he say it?” 

“Because it’ll vindicate the right and piss off the left, especially those progressives you mentioned, and everyone in between is going to feel like they’ve been yanked around for nothing. That’s why.” 

Steve blinks—it’s not often that Darcy comes down so strongly on the opposite side of Matt, although it’s not as if he doesn’t appreciate the support—and adds, “I was just going to say because I don’t want to, but that’s a much better answer. Now, is that everything?”

“No—”

“Yes,” Darcy replies firmly. “We can finish prep tomorrow before the press conference, sir. Thanks, everyone. Back to work.”

The room fills with the sounds of staff dispersing and Matt turns towards the door in the hope of escaping back to his office for the rest of the day. He only manages to take about two steps in that direction before Darcy is grabbing his arm.

“My office. Now,” she hisses, and he doesn’t really have a choice but to follow her. 

"What the hell was that?" Darcy asks as soon as they're far enough away from prying ears. They're still in the hall, but her voice is low and the buzz of activity around them should mask the conversation. 

Matt passes his cane from one hand to the other, pushes his glasses back up his nose. The President being pissed at him, that much he can handle, but Darcy being pissed at him? That's always made him feel lost at sea. 

(He feels that way now—uncomfortable, unsteady, like he's being pulled in too many directions at once and might just be dragged under)

"He shouldn't blow off the question if he gets it," Matt says finally. It's not an answer and the thin line of Darcy's lips means she knows it isn't. 

"He won't blow off the question."

"He said—"

"He won't blow off the question," Darcy repeats, unwilling to let Matt get a word in edgewise. 

"You know how I know he won't blow it off? Because I'm the press secretary and I'm very good at my job." Darcy pauses, then adds, amusement lightening her tone, "Also because I get upset with him when he blows things off and he doesn't like it when I'm upset with him." 

"Darcy—"

"You can't yell at the President, Matt," she continues on, the brief levity dropping from her voice. "Not like that at least."

Matt feels abruptly exhausted, the weight of the past week, hell, the past year, all falling on him at once. He knows she's right, he honestly does, he's just—he may be in over his head. 

_Why did I think I could do this job?_

Darcy must read something in his face because her grip on his arm gentles. 

"He doesn't listen to me," Matt sighs. 

"That's not—"

"It is true," he insists. "I feel like—Christ, Darcy, I feel like the kid in the back of the class with his hand raised constantly. The one no one ever wants the teacher to call on because it'll be a big thing."

They reach Darcy's office and she tugs him inside, closing the door behind him—not that he would have considered leaving even if she hadn't. 

When she speaks again she's soft in a way that reminds him of cashmere scarves and late nights in his dorm room. 

"Coming from someone as brilliant as you, that's a really stupid metaphor." 

Matt sighs and sinks down onto her couch, sliding his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t have the ear of the President, everything I write sounds terrible, I can’t get anything done—” 

“Okay, well, none of those things are true, but if you want to take up the fifteen minutes I have to talk to you about what’s actually wrong with being insecure, I suppose I can be flexible,” Darcy replies. 

It’s so dry and unexpected that despite himself, Matt chokes on a laugh. Christ, he loves this woman. 

“Seriously though,” the couch shifts when Darcy sits next to him and Matt’s focus narrows to where her arm is pressed against his, “tell me what’s really going on.”

He loves her, but sometimes he hates that she knows him so well.

 

_Columbia University, 1998_

_“Why law school?”_

_Matt’s head is in Darcy’s lap—it’s one of the first truly warm days since the end of winter and they’re outside in the quad. The LSATs are six weeks away and Darcy’s been stressed about them a lot more than either him or Foggy, so he’d let her drag him away from his study materials for the afternoon. He can’t exactly say he’s terribly upset by the sun on his face and her fingers in his hair._

_“Hmm?”_

_“Why law school?” Darcy repeats. “Why do you want to be a lawyer so much?”_

_It should be an easy question. It’s all Matt’s ever wanted to do, after all. And yet, somehow he can’t come up with a solid answer._

_“The law makes sense,” he replies. It’s the best answer he can come up with. “Being a lawyer, it feels like...I don’t know, I feel like I’d be working for something right. Something good. Upholding the Constitution and all that.”_

_“The Constitution is occasionally bullshit, you know,” Darcy points out. Matt’s lips quirk up._

_“Depends on how you argue it.”_

_Darcy snorts. “See, I think that’s the real reason. You just want to argue all day.”_

_“Like you don’t?”_

_“I’ll argue with you all day,” she shoots back. “You make it actually fun. Everyone else...that’s up for debate.”_

_It’s soft and there’s an edge to it that feels heavier than usual. Flirty. He likes it more than he should._

_“Why do you want to be a lawyer?” Matt asks, returning the question. It’s easier than flirting back. Especially when he can’t be entirely positive he’s reading her correctly._

_Darcy goes quiet, but her fingers continue combing through his hair. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll figure it out in law school. If I get in that is.”_

_“You’ll be fine.”_

_“The LSATs are bullshit.”_

_“Darcy. You’ll be fine.”_

_“Whatever you say, Matty. Whatever you say.”_

 

“Come on, Matt,” Darcy murmurs. “It’s just me. You can tell me anything.” 

Matt leans back, tips his head toward the ceiling. It’s hard to breathe, like there’s a block of cement on his chest, weighing it down. If he’s honest with himself, he’s been twisted up for days and this is just the tipping point.

“You know, Luke Cage gave me my first campaign job,” he starts quietly. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

Darcy nods. “Yeah. I know.”

“We used to sit together on the campaign, late at night when we were all exhausted and needed to be reminded why we were bothering, and we’d talk about what we would do if we won. We’d talk about...the future and how great it would be to have the power to make a difference. And we both understand more about how government really works now, but Luke’s done a lot in Congress. A lot. And I—” 

Matt breaks off as his stomach drops, swallowing hard. It’s funny—he’s the Communications Director for the White House, for the President, it’s quite literally his job to have the words for every situation, and yet he can’t seem to find them now. 

“You met with him last week to ask him to support the weapons ban,” Darcy fills in. 

“Yeah.”

“And?”

This time when he laughs it’s bitter and raw. “Well, he didn’t outright call me a sellout, but I don’t think he’s going to be too interested in taking my call any time soon.”

“Matt,” Darcy sighs. Her hand curls around his, loosening his grip on his cane. “You were doing your job. Luke understands that.”

“I shouldn’t have even taken the meeting,” Matt snaps. He regrets it instantly and gentles his tone as he continues. “I had no business—I knew he wouldn’t support it and I knew it wasn’t going to go any better whether it was me asking instead of Natasha. Hell, at least Natasha wouldn’t have looked like a hypocrite.”

Darcy bites her lip. “It’s not a bad—”

“It’s a _useless_ law, Darcy,” he exclaims. “Calling it a weapons ban is ridiculous. Even calling it gun reform is a stretch. Point me to the section that talks about background checks. Point me to the section on waiting periods. Oh, wait. You can’t do that because this law doesn’t touch those things at all! Seriously? The 30-round ammo clip and not the 20-round? Regulation of grip differences? It’s a joke, and frankly, we should be ashamed to be putting our names on it.”

By the time Matt finishes talking he feels like he’s just run a marathon, winded and flushed. Whether he feels better having said all of it out loud, well, that’s all relative, but he is glad he said it. 

At his side, Darcy is quiet. She presses her lips together, sighs, rakes a hand through her hair, and then shifts away from him. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay...so what’s your real problem here?”

Matt blinks. “I just—”

“No,” Darcy interrupts. “What you just gave me are a list of reasons why the law sucks and why we need to do better in the future. That doesn’t explain why you’re this upset about it.”

She pauses, takes a breath as if to speak, but then doesn’t. They spend another moment in silence before she finally does, soft and wary. “I’m gonna say something, and I want you to not get mad at me, okay?”

_I could never be mad at you_. “Sure.” 

“Can you tell me honestly this has nothing to do with your dad?”

It feels as if she’s punched him in the stomach. And somewhere inside him a dam breaks, flooding him with everything he’s been trying to hold back for the past several weeks. Confusion, hurt, anger, so much anger, bitterness.

He’s not mad at Darcy, though. That much he’s honest about.

There’s a lump in Matt’s throat and it’s difficult to swallow. When he tries to speak his tongue feels like sandpaper.

“I—”

Darcy turns his hand over, laces her fingers through his. It’s grounding. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “Matt, it’s okay.”

“I’m older than he ever got to be,” he says. He’s shaky. His voice is shot. “I—it would have been his birthday this week. But instead, he’s in the ground because he was murdered with a gun that was purchased legally by a ranking member of known gang. And here I am years later and I’m supposed to be happy about passing a law that doesn’t even let us run a background check?”

Darcy’s arms are around him before he can blink, shifting up on her knees so he can hide his face in her shoulder. When her free hand cards through his hair, he tries not to think too hard about the burning in his eyes. 

“He would have been so proud you,” she assures, and it’s another punch but doesn’t hurt as much as the first. 

“It’s a useless law,” Matt whispers. 

“It’s a step,” Darcy counters. “An extremely small step, but we’ll get there. Maybe we lost this one to compromise, but we’ll do better next time. We will.”

“...I yelled at the President.”

“Yeah, you did. But he’ll get over it.”

“Unless he fires me first.”

“Shut up and let me hug you.”

He does.

 

_Columbia University, 1999_

_Darcy’s going to Berkeley. Darcy’s moving to California. Darcy’s leaving New York._

_Leaving him. Goddammit._

_Matt was right when he told her Foggy was going to throw her a hell of a going away party. Based on the noise coming through the door it’s gearing up to be even more ridiculous than the graduation after-party and that had led to Matt not being able to remember at least 6 hours of his life. Which...is only partly why he’s hiding in his room with a godawful beer instead of sitting outside and actually joining in the festivities._

_Because, the thing is, if he goes out there he’s liable to do something stupid like tell Darcy how much he loves her. And that’s not something he can do when she’s moving three thousand miles away in two days._

_“Matt.” Foggy sighs as he closes the door behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “You planning on going out there anytime soon?”_

_Matt takes a pull of his beer and grimaces. “She’s leaving, Foggy.”_

_“Yeah, I’m aware,” Foggy replies. “That’s kind of the whole point of having the party that’s going on. So we can give her a good send-off. Kind of hard to do that when her two best friends are missing.”_

_“No one made you come in here,” Matt points out._

_“Kind of hard to do that when her favorite best friend is missing,” he clarifies. “Stop sulking. I thought you were happy for her.”_

_“I am happy for her, Foggy!” Christ, he has a headache. “She’s brilliant and she deserves this, I just—”_

_“She’s leaving you.”_

_Matt coughs. “I—she’s not—she’s leaving...generally, she’s not leaving me, that’s ridiculous.” That makes it sound much more intimate than it is. Like there’s something there beyond friendship. Like he’s actually told her. Like she actually cares._

_“Bullshit.”_

_“What?”_

_Foggy leans back against the door, looking deeply unimpressed. “I said bullshit. You two have been dating without saying it for years. She may be leaving generally, but there’s no way to make it feel like she’s not leaving you so you’re sulking instead of going out there and enjoying what time you have left.”_

_It stings. What’s worse, he doesn’t have a response and he hates the idea of admitting Foggy is right._

_Matt swears, sets the beer aside, and rakes his hands through his hair. “What am I supposed to do, Foggy? I can’t go out there if I can’t look happy, and right now...I just...need a minute.”_

_Foggy considers that, then shakes his head. “Yeah, okay, here’s something that you could do. You could pull your head out of your ass, go out there, and tell her that you’ve been completely and utterly gone over her for the past four years. Or skip that and just kiss her. I think that would probably do the trick.”_

_“Foggy, she doesn’t feel the same way. She’s dated—”_

_“Uh, so have you—”_

_“And she’s leaving anyway, so what does it matter what I say? We’re starting law school in a month, she’s starting her own grad program, what? We’re just supposed to try and have a long-distance relationship? Because those always work out so well.”_

_“I’m just gonna throw out there that Berkeley has a pretty great law school too…”_

_Matt’s headache sharpens, pain building right behind his eyes, and he presses his palms to them._

_“Do you think I haven’t thought about that?” He says quietly. “Do you think I wouldn’t drop everything to follow her if she wanted me to? If she asked? Christ, Foggy, I would apply there in a heartbeat if I could. If there was even a chance she might want—”_

_“Then what’s the problem?”_

_“I’m blind!” Matt shouts, grateful for how loud the music is because it’s likely hidden his voice from the other room._

_Foggy blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. “I—I don’t…”_

_Matt swears internally. It’s not Foggy’s fault he’s never had to think about things like this. But it’s an uncomfortable reminder of the difference between them._

_“I’ve lived here my whole life,” he explains. “I know the streets, I know how to use the subway. Hell, there is a subway to begin with. I can get around. California is a totally different place with terrible and unreliable public transit. I wouldn’t be able to get around. Not easily. Not like here. It’s not—I can’t just move across the country, Foggy. Doesn’t matter how much I love her.”_

_Foggy blows out a breath and lets his arms fall to his sides. “Well, shit.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“You could still tell her.”_

_“Or I could just let her go.”_

_It’s a much harder decision than he expects._

 

 

“Is this seat taken?”

It’s been over a day since Matt’s argument with Steve in the press room and since then he’s managed to avoid being alone with the President. Now, at a reception where he can’t exactly escape, it seems like his luck on that front has run out.

“I’m fairly certain that even if it were, the occupant wouldn’t be in a hurry to reclaim it from you, sir,” Matt replies, turning his glass in his hands to give them something to do. It’s only water, but now he’s almost wishing he’d gone for something stronger.

“You’re probably right about that,” Steve acknowledges. There’s an awkward silence for a moment before both of them try to speak at once.

“I heard the press conference—”

“I’m sorry, Matt—”

Matt stops in surprise. “What?”

Steve grimaces and settles back in the chair. “I shouldn’t have said the things I did yesterday. You were right. About...all of it. So, I’m sorry.”

“I—” Matt breaks off to clear his throat. The last thing he was expecting tonight was an apology. Being fired was definitely higher up on his list of expected outcomes than that.

“At the press conference,” he says, starting again, “you got the question. And you said that while it was a good start, gun control still has a long way to go.”

Steve nods. “Yes. I did.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not the kid in class that no one wants to call on, or whatever it is you told Darcy,” he replies. “I should have listened in the first place. Hell, if this were a year ago I probably would have been saying everything you were myself. I just…”

He goes quiet and Matt cocks his head, brow furrowing. “Mr. President?”

“You know, Darcy chewed me out pretty badly last night,” Steve admits quietly. “Not that I think she would characterize it that way, but that’s definitely how it felt. She said that my demons have been shouting down the better angels in my head. And that it’s time for me to get up and get to work.”

Despite himself, Matt laughs. _Christ, Darcy_. “She said that?”

“Yeah, she did,” Steve chuckles. “She also said the only reason I was mad at you was because I knew you were right and just didn’t want to admit it. Which was also true.”

“Sir—” 

“No, it was,” Steve insists, waving off the interruption. “I was...you know, I never planned on running for President. And when I did I never thought I would actually get elected. So when I was, I got scared. And because I got scared I drove myself to the middle of the road and parked there. So—”

Steve reaches out and claps Matt on the shoulder. “I’d like to start doing some real governing around here. How about you?”

For the first time in weeks if not months, something loosens in Matt’s chest. It feels remarkably like hope. 

“I think I’d like that very much, Mr. President,” he replies. “Very much indeed.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Because I’ve gotten pretty used to having you around, so I’d really hate to see you go. And not only because if you left I think I’d have to find a new press secretary as well. Between the two of you, you seem to have a pretty good handle on your own better angels.”

“I—” Matt considers that, drums his fingers against his glass, then drops his voice. “Between the two of us, sir...I’m pretty sure Darcy is most of my better angels.”

He takes a drink after that to ease the rawness of his throat. Next to him, Steve is quiet. Considering. 

“You should really marry that woman, you know,” Steve finally replies, quiet enough that even Matt can barely hear him. 

“Yeah—” Matt’s voice cracks and he has to clear his throat before he can continue. “I—yeah, I know.”

He carefully does not think about the ring locked away in the desk in his office. He doesn’t think about it because it’s ridiculous, evidence of the most nonsensical thing he’s ever done in his life. Who buys an engagement ring for someone who doesn’t even know how you feel about them?

(It had been a total whim—two weeks after Election Night, after he’d kissed Darcy on a hotel balcony, he’d ducked into a store to escape a sudden downpour when he’d been caught outside without an umbrella. It turned out to be a jewelry store, and well...he didn’t—still doesn’t—have any excuse for buying the damn thing. Or for keeping it.) 

Steve claps him on the shoulder again as he stands. “Have a good night, Matt. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

“Oh, and Matt?” Steve says, turning back for just a brief moment. “Don’t wait too long.”

“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently this is what happens when I let Matt talk. I would say I regret my choices, but that would be a lie.
> 
> (For those waiting on the next chapter of Enemies, it's in progress. I simply haven't been able to get myself into the space to write the angst of it yet XD)

**Author's Note:**

> Matt wanted his own story and I am weak, so here it is. Let me know what you think :)


End file.
